Exequies
by TheDescension
Summary: Perhaps they will be the death of each other, perhaps they will bury each other but she is the warmth to his cold and he is the life to her death.
Alright. So this is my first fic in the Captain Canary fandom.

This is just my take on how I think their relationship would progress. Not that I want Mick to die but I think that's what they have just done, so this follow a universe where Len kills Mick.

I hope you will enjoy reading this.

I obviously do not own _Legends of Tomorrow._

Leave a review on the way out and let me know how you feel about it.

* * *

It starts the day he kills Mick.

She wishes there was some other way to say it, not make it sound so crass, not make him sound so inhuman and monstrous but there is no sugarcoating it. If there is one thing that she has learnt, it is that prevaricating euphemisms never end very well.

She does not blame him, no one in the team does. Mick was dangerous. There was no stopping him and when there is time travel on the cards, no team can afford to have liabilities that will turn at them in stead of having their back.

Her heart wrenches in pain for him. She knows how much Mick had meant to him. It was not fair: for him to lose Mick in this way, for him to have to pull the trigger on Mick.

When he returns to the ship, he does not say anything, merely throws the cold gun onto the floor in front of Rip and hisses at him with a sardonic smile on his face, "All aboard, Captain."

He leaves after that, vanishing into the room that is now only his.

She wants to go after him but is not sure how he will react to it. He is not the most friendly guy to spend time with. Besides she has to go the med bay and do something about her arm, carrying the scars Mick has left behind. She wonders why no one bothers following him into his room. Is he not everyone's responsibility?

And then it hits her. So sudden, so strong, so painful, that it rips her apart from the inside. No one gives a _damn_ about him. He is still a crook in their eyes and in spite of all that he has done, no one cares.

At least, does not care enough.

That sets her on her feet and she finds herself walking towards his room, somehow feeling his loneliness in the empty expanses of the ship, his solitude haunting and palpable in the air around her.

She knocks on the door, to which there is no reply. It does not surprise her at all.

"It's Sara," she says, pressing her forehead against the door. "Let me in, Leonard."

There is a faint sound on the other side of the door which is followed by the sound of the lock being opened. The door never opens but she takes it as an invitation for her to go in.

She cautiously opens the door, not quite knowing what to expect. She finds him on the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, hands holding his head down.

It is not his vulnerable exposed form that surprises her, it is the fact that he is letting her see him like this that fills her with surprise. She knows how much of a leap of faith it is, to let someone see you through all your walls and masks. If anything at all, this simply proves how much they have come to trust each other in the past few days.

She drops to the floor beside him, careful to maintain her distance, not too close, not too far away. They do not talk for a long time. He remains huddled, his head bowed and his hands quivering as she remains a ghost beside him.

"I did not want to kill him," he hisses, lifting his head for the first time since she came in. "But what else could I have done?"

"You did the right thing," her voice is soft but steady.

"How is killing someone the right thing?" he snarls, turning sharply at her.

"It was the right thing to do today," she replies, not intimidated by him.

"Says the assassin," he mumbles under his breath, his words dripping with distaste and contempt.

Had it been another day, she would have retaliated, perhaps with a solid blow on his face or with a caustic insult but today is not another day and she does not say anything.

"You did what was right for the team, Leonard," she says. "That counts for something."

He does not say anything, continues glaring at the floor, anger in his eyes.

"Killing is never easy," she says. "And if you are feeling remorse right now, if you are regretting your actions, then it is perfectly normal. It makes you human and not a monster."

He knows she is talking about herself, about the blood lust she keeps talking of. But he has seen her fight and knows she is not a monster.

"Sara," he starts.

"No, I know," she dismisses him with a wave of the hand. "It's fine. I am fine."

It is then that he realizes she has one hand wrapped around the arm where Mick had fired at her.

"You did not get it bandaged, did you?" he asks, voice devoid of the regular snark and sarcasm.

She shakes her head in reply.

He gets up on his feet immediately, pulling her up. He escorts her to the med bay despite her protests.

She figures he needs something to remain busy with, a distraction that will keep his mind off Mick, even if it is just for a few moments and so she lets him attend to her wound with the ointment that Gideon claims is the best for burn injuries.

He refuses to meet her eyes, silently working on her. She cannot help but notice how gentle his hands are. Her mind runs empty for a while as his calloused fingers graze her skin.

"It was my fault," he says, once he is almost complete. "It all started with Star City 2046. He would not even have gone to the Acheron had he not felt it so important to prove a point."

"Leonard," she starts tiredly. "Right now, it will seem to you that whatever you did was responsible for what happened to Mick but that is not true. He was a grown person, capable of making his own choices and it is not on you if he made the wrong choice."

He does not look convinced and she stands up, facing him, placing her hand on his cheek. He tenses under her touch and looks away.

"Look at me," she says softly.

It is hesitant and full of doubt but he finally looks at her, his eyes scorching into hers.

"I need you to trust me this one time," she whispers. "You did the right thing today."

She watches as his eyes darken and his hands secure themselves around her waist, pulling her in closer. "I'll need more than that, assassin, if you want me to trust you. I am sort of cold to the whole trust thing."

She gapes at him, noting how close they were to making a monumental mistake that would set everything wrong. In spite of her realization, all she does is lean in, giving in to the desire burning deep within her.

"Snart," she hisses before she is cut off by his lips firmly pressed on hers.

She does not know why he does it. Sure, they have been dancing around each other for a while now but this is not what she had expected.

Perhaps it is another distraction. Perhaps she is just another way for him to turn his mind away from Mick and forget the evening.

He is no longer gentle with her. His lips course down her body, probably leaving bruises. His hands are holding her close and then suddenly he is backing her against a wall, his lips attacking hers with renewed intensity. She does not hold back but throws herself into it.

It is rough and raw: born out of need and desperation to keep themselves occupied and away from the reach of their own demons. They have found an outlet for all their pent up anger and she figures if he does not stop, she does not have to stop him.

* * *

They throw themselves back into their routines, pretending it had never happened. There is not much to talk about, really. It was a moment of weakness in his life and she had been there when he had been needy.

It is not like she is falling, she tells herself.

There is too much on her hands right now to worry about her relationship with Leonard Snart.

But it happens again.

She finds herself in his room, desperately needing someone to talk to and before long, his lips are back on hers, his hands back on her body.

She lets her hands explore his body, removing his parka and then his shirt. She traces her fingers over his scars and bruises, every touch of hers drawing a gasp from him. Every scar is a story and she realizes just how badly she wants to know all of them. She does not understand this sudden interest of hers to unravel the enigma that Leonard Snart is.

It does not take him long to remove her top and suddenly all that is left between the two of them is scarred souls and naked bodies.

Every touch of his reassures her that she is still alive, that she is still human and that she can still _feel_. It does not take them long to finish what they have started and a few minutes later, she finds her body shaking violently against his, her heart pounding and a tidal wave of calmness washing over her in the aftermath.

* * *

Their missions go unhindered as they travel through space and time. There are wild kisses and fervent lovemaking thrown into the mix now but no one is complaining.

They are careful to keep it in between just the two of them. They do not have a label for what they are doing and figure it is best if it stays that way.

They retain their previous banter in front of everyone: she is the assassin and he is the crook.

But when they are alone, out of everybody's eyesight, secluded in his room, they are so much more. He is her savior and she is his protector, he is the light to her darkness and she is the day to his night, she is the warmth to his cold and he is the life to her death.

They do not realize and before they can put a check on it, they are both falling recklessly and hopelessly.

* * *

They do not really talk about it but somehow certain rules come to exist between them. They avoid eye contact while making love.

 _He does not even call it making love._

They figure it is easiest and safest this way. This way they are ensuring that there is no additional unwanted emotional bond developing between them.

They do not cry out each other's names, both silently realizing how deep that makes a relationship. It almost feels like yet another mission. Perhaps that is all that it is. It is not like they are doing whatever they are doing out of love, it is pain that drives them to do so.

It is just a shelter for them to hide in, something they can throw themselves into to let their minds drift from the brutal reality, something that gifts them with a place where they are not forced to confront their demons.

* * *

He does not talk much but one night he decides to talk about her ex-lovers.

"Who else was there, besides Oliver Queen?" he asks softly.

She has to say she is surprised. No one really asks her anything about her past. All that people give a damn about is the Lazarus Pit and her resurrection. It is almost like she has stopped being a person in everybody's eyes.

"Nyssa," she replies, the word foreign on her lips.

"Who was she?"

"A member of the League of Assassins," she whispers.

She does not say anymore, cannot bring herself to say anymore. It hurts her in ways more than one and leaves her weak and susceptible.

He feels her shifting discomfort and says, "A vigilante and an assassin. You have quite the colorful history."

She has to smile at that, he has this strange gift of making her smile in moments like these.

"Some competition you have there," she says, a playful lilt in her voice.

"Nothing that the cold cannot handle," he drawls before pulling her closer.

* * *

She leaves his room every night after they are done. There is no reason to stay behind.

There are days when she wants to stay back, certain that if she does she will have to live through a few less morbid nightmares because in his arms, she is presented with an unnatural strength that makes her want to fight just a little harder.

But she knows what it will mean if she stays back. It will only complicate things. It will drive them closer, forge a bond between them that they are both trying very hard to avoid forming.

She wonders if he ever wants her to stay behind. He is always so quiet, so reticent, so taciturn, never a look in his eyes or an expression on his face that will reveal his emotions. It disturbs her not to be able to see through him, not to be able to decipher his cryptic glances and mysterious smiles.

They have fitted themselves in their groove for a good few months now and one night as she dresses to leave, he calls out for her. "You could stay, you know."

She turns to face him, tries to see through him, tries to read the look in his eyes. "Yeah?"

"Well," he shrugs, tilting his head to one side. "I don't bite."

She rolls her eyes at him before throwing herself on top of him, pushing him down onto the bed, covering his lips with hers.

They break a rule or two that night as they hold each other's gaze as he makes loves to her and she cries out his name when his head finds a way between her thighs, his tongue perfect on her skin. All their unspoken boundaries vanish that night, vanquished and pushed into oblivion by their burning desire. Their eyes ignite, their hands devour each other's bodies till they lose their senses in the euphoric whirlpool that claims them.

They both know that there are words being exchanged through actions. They are both defying the voice in their heads that has always taught them to keep people away and are opening up in a way they had never thought they would.

Later that night, when they are almost fast asleep, she cannot help but whisper to him, "Thank you, Len."

She marvels at how seamlessly the word rolls out of her mouth, at how natural it seems for her to call him Len.

She expects him to say something snarky in return, to come up with a pun on the word cold but all he does is whisper, "Thank you too, Sara."

* * *

They realize they are saving each other, they are slowly but steadily annihilating each other's demons.

When his hand freezes on the cold gun in between a fight, clearly a memory of Mick hitting him, she covers for him and talks him out of his trance.

When she loses almost all her control one day, he pulls her back, firmly securing her in his grasp, whispering calmly into her ears, reminding her that she has nothing to be afraid of.

It surprises them how they seem to understand each other so well, without a word ever having to be spelt out and sometimes they wonder why they had not found each other earlier.

* * *

Before long it is no longer a secret that they have become more than friends.

They have long ago stopped being alert and do not mind others seeing them emerging from each other's rooms.

It is not like they are scared anymore, if they could survive their own monsters and demons, they are convinced that they can handle anything that the world throws at them.

* * *

But in the end, she is still the assassin and he is still the crook.

Perhaps they will be the death of each other, perhaps they will bury each other.

But there are so much worse ways to die that they would choose this without thinking twice.


End file.
